You Know Who I Am
by flexingrhetoric
Summary: Companion (and sequel) to Fire, Fury, and Flame. Read that first! After the effects of the drugs wear off, John is still acting strangely. Sherlock realizes his friend is embarrassed and tries to fix it. One-shot. Drug references, no slash. Rated T to be safe, but no language.


**Author Note: This one-shot will only make sense if you have read my story "Fire, Fury, and Flame." Go read that, and then come back. I'll wait. :)**

**This story deals with Sherlock's reaction to what John cut into his feet. It is somewhat fluffy, although John is asleep for the majority of it. Reference to self-harm (which happens in the previous story, not this one). Please read and review. I would love to know what you think of this less-manic Sherlock. I have written this in response to a review from Sherlocked Girl on Fire (thank you!).**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

Sherlock hadn't seen John's bare feet for almost six weeks. Not since the day John had come downstairs from his room, high as a kite with a knife dripping blood onto the carpet. From that day on, John was very careful about keeping his feet covered, either with socks or a pair of ridiculous slippers he'd come home from work with shortly after that day.

Sherlock knew why, of course. John had, while high on heroin that Sherlock had administered to him, carved Sherlock's name into the bottom of his feet.

For six weeks, Sherlock had waited for John to want to talk about it. John liked to talk about things, things like friendship and sentiment and _how-are-we-feeling-about-that_. It typically drove Sherlock crazy. Why talk when words made no difference anyway? Who cared about sentiment when there were delicious puzzles to be solved? So John's silence about the whole experience should have been just fine.

Then why, Sherlock asked himself, was he feeling unsatisfied? He didn't need to discuss cases after they were over. John did. That's why the blog worked so well for both of them. But this case, the case of John-the-Heroin-Addict, was not on the blog. John hadn't discussed it with anyone, including Sherlock. And he particularly hadn't talked about his self-inflicted tattoo.

It was very un-John-like to maintain silence on something that concerned them both. Indeed, John was acting very un-John-like in general. He was avoiding Sherlock, and not even surreptitiously but flat out. Disappearing at all hours of the day and night. Eating alone in his room. Limping around with his cane (although that one could probably be explained). Sherlock pondered this for one full etude on his violin before he realized what was going on.

John was embarrassed. John thought that the engravings on his feet were somehow humiliating to both of them. John thought Sherlock would think he (John) was in love with him (Sherlock).

But that was ridiculous. Sherlock knew that John wasn't gay. He knew that John stayed with him because they were best friends and because they complemented each other. Their relationship was … complicated, somehow both more and less stable than anything Sherlock had ever experienced before. They belonged to each other, somehow, in a way that made lust seem frivolous. Theirs wasn't a love relationship. Sherlock knew that.

Ah, yes, but did John know that Sherlock knew that? It wasn't like they'd ever discussed it before, not since that first night at Angelo's. The subject had never really come up after that, so there was every possibility that John was acting un-John-like because he was embarrassed.

Conclusion: Get John to talk about things so they could clear the air. Then John would go back to being John and Sherlock could stop worrying about things like feelings and sentiment.

Twice, Sherlock almost brought it up. The first time he almost mentioned it was a week or so after John stopped looking feverish from cravings. If John was done with the craving, perhaps he would be ready to talk.

"John," Sherlock said at the dinner table. John looked up at him from the risotto and frowned. He must have deduced something from Sherlock's face, because he stood up urgently. Sherlock didn't like the expression in John's eyes. John was always so open, so trusting. Now he looked . . . guarded. Like he didn't want Sherlock to know what he was thinking. Which was ridiculous. Sherlock knew that John knew that Sherlock knew what he was thinking.

"Headed to Mike's for the evening, don't wait up," John had said in a rush, leaving without even grabbing his coat. He had not returned that night.

The second time Sherlock tried to initiate a conversation, he'd ambushed John after work. He'd cleaned the flat (realizing in the process why he always let John do the cleaning) and he'd brought home Chinese. When John's familiar footsteps marked the staircase, Sherlock was completely ready. Unfortunately, John seemed to know exactly what was going on as soon as he opened the door. With slow movements, John's eyes surveyed every change in the flat, his nose flaring as he smelled the food.

"John," Sherlock said, jumping up to close the door behind his friend. By the time he turned around, John was halfway to his bedroom. His words floated down to disappoint Sherlock.

"Sorry, Sherlock, tired."

Twice attempted, twice foiled. After that, Sherlock had let it go, and things were almost back to normal. John worked at the clinic and came with him on cases, and Sherlock had plenty of cases to keep his mind from becoming bored. Eventually, John stopped flinching every time Sherlock touched his shoulder or said his name. John even made eye contact now.

Sherlock sat on the chair in their living room, watching his only friend sleep. It was well after midnight, and John needed the rest. They'd been chasing an arsonist for three days, finally finding the crucial clue (purple hair dye in the snow). When the two of them got back to the flat, John had collapsed on the couch, snoring in minutes. The flat was heavily warm, very unlike the air outside. It was warm enough that John began to toss and turn, kicking his shoes off in his sleep.

Then his socks.

His feet looked pale, a sharp contrast to his face and hands, which had never lost the desert tan. Sherlock considered for a moment, then moved so that he could see the bottoms of John's feet. The angry, red scars there made him wince. S-H-E-R on John's left foot, and L-O-C-K on his right foot. The letters were about an inch high, covering entirely the soles of John's feet.

John was never going to tell him why it was Sherlock's name etched into his feet, Sherlock realized. In fact, he suspected that John would never let Sherlock see his feet again. If Sherlock couldn't see his feet, then perhaps the events of that day had never happened. Just one more thing to bury away behind nightmares and post-traumatic stress.

What was this thing Sherlock felt rising up through his throat? Oh yes, sadness. Sadness for John, who was so damaged inside and out, but who was still protecting Sherlock. Who wanted Sherlock to see only the strong side of him. Silly John. Didn't he know by now that Sherlock had seen every side of him? John had nothing to hide. And Sherlock wasn't exactly the person to hide things from. As John knew.

Sherlock pondered for a moment, then headed up to John's room. When he came back down, he was carrying John's slippers. Today was not the day to force John to confront his demons.

With gentle motions, so as not to wake his friend up, he put them on John's scarred feet.

Another day.

**AN: Please review and let me know what you think. Also, I need ideas for other stories, either one-shots or multichapter. Any brilliant suggestions?**


End file.
